


Passion's Endless Sweeping Tide

by wavewright62



Category: Namesake (Webcomic)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Multi, Romance Novel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 04:15:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18461279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wavewright62/pseuds/wavewright62
Summary: A new Namesake gets dropped into a romance novel.  If she doesn't get out of there soon, it might turn into a murder mystery!





	Passion's Endless Sweeping Tide

“Get two scoops. It’s so hot, we’ll sweat it off in no time,” Francesca urged her friend Jenny at the ice cream shop counter. Jenny started to protest, but Francesca held up a hand to forestall her. “I got it, don’t worry.” They couldn’t stay in the air-conditioned shop, which was already full of patrons trying to beat the heat wave. They walked down the street, trying to find a shady patch to sit in and eat their ice cream in peace.

“Thanks Francesca, I owe you one,” Jenny said.

“Aah, don’ worry about it, gets me out of the house,” Francesca smirked, “aaand it gives me an excuse to get one myself.” She smiled at Jenny as she spooned another bite.

“A-ha, your dastardly plan is laid bare, Lady Francesca! Your magnanimity hides your mendacity!”

“Uh, what? Sure, whatever.” She shook her head. “What’s with the ‘Lady’ crap, though?”

“Ha, I named a character after you!” Jenny snorted. “Francesca is such a posh name, I’m going to use it in this stupid romance farce I’m writing. It’s called,” she threw her arm out dramatically before bringing her hand to her forehead, “Passion’s Endless Sweeping Tide.” She said the words as though they echoed. Francesca didn’t look impressed, so Jenny said it again, “PASSION”S (PassionPassionpassion) ENDLESS (EndlessEndlessendless Sweeping TIDE (IDEIdeide).”

“Ooh, jazz hands, must be awesome,” Francesca shrugged. “But it’s not a posh name, it was my grandmother’s name.” She gestured with both hands in the air and took on a thick accent, “and I had nothing when I came to America. Nothing!”

“Aw, c’mon. It’s a take-off on every crappy romance novel ever written. You know how the hero is always dark and Complicated, and their names always end in -ick, like Roder _ick_ or Derr _ick_?”

Francesca shrugged. “Not really. I don’ read that stuff. The guys on the covers always look good, though.”

It was Jenny’s turn to roll her eyes. “Oh, don’t even get me started on the cover art. People’s hair just doesn’t _do_ that swirly thing. Well, okay, _yours_ does, you have that ‘fro thing going ON.” Francesca tossed her curly black hair in mocking drama; she’d picked it out into a full afro in the humidity, tied off her face with a colourful scarf. Jenny continued, “Anyway, we were having a big laugh about it in my creative writing class the other day, and I’m writing up a draft.”

“So, what, you’re makin’ a joke out of _my name?_ Thanks. Thank you so much. And having me fall in love with some ‘icky’ guy,” Francesca brandished her spoon at Jenny, “you’re a pal.”

“Not _you,_ it’s about…Eek, the Tiny Plastic Spoon of Death!” Jenny pretended to stagger from blows from Francesca’s spoon, “I am wounded! I am-“

Jenny stopped short. A bright blue vortex had appeared on the sidewalk next to them, and Francesca’s wide brown eyes reflected the eerie blue light briefly. A moment later, Francesca was gone, and the last vestiges of the blue light spun in the air where she had stood. The half-eaten cup of ice cream had landed face down on the hot sidewalk, and Jenny blinked dumbly for a moment, watching rivulets of melted ice cream run out from under the cup.

“Francesca?,” Jenny whispered. She looked around, but there was no one else in the park. The basketball court was empty behind the chain-link fence. There weren’t any bushes close by.

“Francesca, not funny!,” she cried out in increasing panic, spinning around to find her friend. But Francesca was gone.

\-------

Francesca found herself half-rolling and half-sliding through mud, down a hill and coming to an abrupt halt, the blue bubbles in her vision dissipating. The day was no longer sunny and hot, it was clouded over and rather cold, and her bare shoulder was sitting in cold mud. Her descent down the slope was halted against a pair of shiny black leather riding boots.

“Oh Lady Francesca, do stop making a scene. It’s so unbecoming a lady of your station.” She tilted her head back to find the owner of the boots addressing her. He was tall, olive-complected with black hair that swept over his high brow and above piercing blue eyes. A scar arced from the bridge of his high nose and down the smooth plane of his cheek. He was wearing an emerald-green riding jacket, setting off his broad shoulders, and a crisply starched white jabot. He wore impeccable fawn breeches tucked into his riding boots.

Francesca didn’t know how she knew what a jabot was. She stared up into his cerulean orbs fringed with dark lashes. She yearned to throw harsh words at the supercilious curl of his lips. “What?,” was what actually came out of her mouth.

“Your antics will bring disrepute to the house of Throckmorton-Cumberland,” he sneered as he held out a gloved hand to help her up. “Your lady mother will despair. But since your horse has bolted, it will behoove me to ferry you to her in this …dishevelled condition.” He gestured to his magnificent roan gelding, which was stamping impatiently with spirited desire to run free through the heather.

Francesca shivered as she brushed mud and leaves off her jeans. She was still holding the plastic ice cream spoon, which she distractedly tucked into her pocket. The city street was gone, replaced with rolling hillsides covered in some kind of plant. At least it smelled nice, which was more than she could say about the horse. She’d never been this close to a real horse before. The tall man apparently meant for her to get up on that thing? Just how was she supposed to do that? And the horse was…looking at her. She wrapped her arms around herself.

Without another word, the man swept her up and placed her on the horse just behind its neck. Lightly he sprang up to sit behind her. Strong arms encircled her as he took the reins and urged the horse forward. The noble steed needed no further encouragement and stretched into its stride, as the heather sped away under his hooves.

Francesca screamed as she held on, “Where the hell you takin’ me?!” He did not reply.

\-------

They cantered into the courtyard. “I am gonna have a sore ass for a _week,_ ” Francesca moaned as they came to a halt and the man dismounted. She had felt every footfall through her spine.

“Your horse would be less flighty if you would keep a lighter hand with her. You do worry her flanks so,” he scolded. With that, he deftly scooped her off the horse and deposited her onto the flagstones.

Puzzled and disoriented, Francesca was going to ask him what he meant by that, but he was facing the entryway of the house. “Good afternoon, madame, mademoiselle,” he bowed from the waist.

The two women flounced down the stairs, holding their voluminous skirts and petticoats up. The elder of the two simpered up at the tall man who had ridden in with Francesca, dropping into a small curtsey. “Lord Paddington-Dork, you are most welcome! We were so worried when Francesca’s horse returned without her.” She blinked at Francesca, “My dear, you look…you look…” She faltered as though seeing Francesca for the first time. “Daisy!”

“Yes, ma’am,” the younger woman came forward, eyes demurely cast down. Her long lashes swept cheeks dusted lightly with freckles, while wisps of curling strawberry-blonde hair escaped from under her starched bonnet, making even her plain grey frock appear like a breath of spring over her shapely curves.

Without taking her judging eyes off Francesca, the older woman waved at Daisy, “Take Francesca inside and help her dress for dinner. Appropriately.” Then turning back to the man with an overly wide smile, “Lord Paddington-Dork, will you perhaps be joining us for dinner?”

He inclined his head, “Not this evening, unfortunately. I fear Lady Francesca’s fall has left her somewhat… disoriented. Until tomorrow evening’s rehearsal dinner, then.” He bowed at Francesca, but his glance locked briefly with Daisy. He mounted his horse and cantered away.

Francesca had ignored Daisy pulling on her arm and stayed where she was, noting Daisy’s blush at Lord Paddington-Dork’s glance. Then she allowed herself to be led into the house.

She emitted a low whistle upon entering the foyer. The floors and walls of the foyer were marble, with colourful Persian rugs scattered around. A sweeping staircase with a bannister of glowing wood, lit with oil lamps in gilded sconces, led up to a mezzanine level. A glittering crystal chandelier caught the light from the sconces and threw rainbows around the room. “Hey, nice place you have here, Daisy!,” Francesca grinned. “So, what’s the deal with Lord Paddington-,” she snorted, “Dork? What kind of name is Paddington- _Dork_ anyway? That’s hysterical.”

“But my lady, that is to be _your_ name two days hence,” Daisy laughed lightly, but the smile did not reach her usually lively green eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I used the phrase 'cerulean orbs.' I'm setting a scene here, people.

**Author's Note:**

> "Passion's Endless Sweeping Tide" (PEST for short) was originally an invention of myself and two friends at university, one of whom I am still in touch with, but haven't kept up with the other. Jenny Hanson, if you're out there and active in fandom land, this is for you.


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